


Amateur Cartography

by Thistlerose



Series: So Effed Up We Belong Together [3]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Angst, Birthday, M/M, Sexual Content, Starfleet Academy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-24
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlerose/pseuds/Thistlerose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim warned McCoy that he's always fucked up and weird on his birthday, and he meant it. The fact that his birthday just happens to be their first morning after only complicates things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amateur Cartography

**Author's Note:**

> Written for km_anthology. Beta read by lauriegilbert. Follows [This Body of Wonder and Uncertainty](http://archiveofourown.org/works/126510).

Jim’s internal clock wakes him just before dawn. As he stretches his legs and blinks the crust from his lashes, he’s instantly aware of two things. The first is that it’s his birthday. The twenty-third anniversary of his father’s death.

The second is that he’s naked and curled around the warm, naked body of another man. There’s dried semen on his chest and belly, which flakes when he rubs it. For a moment, Jim is genuinely flustered. As a rule, he doesn’t bring people home. The fact that he’s enrolled at Starfleet Academy and has a sanctimonious prick for a roommate is only one of the reasons. Said prick is currently spending winter break on Lunar One with his girlfriend, but that doesn’t explain anything. He doesn’t bring people home. It’s too hard getting them to leave, even when the evening’s entertainment is clearly over.

So, what the fuck?

The man in Jim’s arms stirs and makes a soft snuffling noise against his outstretched arm. _Bones,_ he thinks, and memories of last night come rolling back over him in cold waves.

The flight sim and their subsequent fight. He pushed McCoy too far and he snapped. No, worse: he set McCoy up to fail, and then he had the gall to be angry when he actually did.

With some embarrassment, he remembers moping in his own room for hours, convinced that he’d just lost his only real friend and wondering why he even bothered. Clearly he didn’t deserve anyone’s friendship; he was a fuck-up just like his Uncle Frank predicted. He remembers forcing himself to get up, get dressed, and head out, determined to drink, fuck, or fight his way into oblivion.

Finding Bones outside waiting for him in that stupid oversized coat of his. Another brutal exchange of words.

 _Kindly get the fuck out of my way._

 _No._

 _Like you really care._

 _I care. And if your father were alive, he’d care too._

Boiling rage. Launching himself at Bones, ready to bludgeon his face into the pavement, some small part of him hoping he’d back off or at least fight back, and when he did neither--

Jim touches Bones’s shoulder lightly, almost tentatively, as he remembers.

Hitting the brakes. Losing control. Falling. Being caught. Being held. Fingers in his hair, a warm hand curved around the back of his neck. Bones whispering over and over again, _I’m sorry. Jim, I’m so, so sorry._ As if he were solely to blame.

Confessions. Admissions. Telling Bones what scared him, since he asked: _I don’t want to be nothing, but I don’t want to be something just because people expect me to be, because of my father._ Something he never told anyone. Listening in patient silence as Bones, his voice breaking, told him about his own father and how he helped him end his life when the disease that was killing him became unbearable.

Understanding. Forgiveness. A realization that rocked him like a thunderclap: _God, Bones, we’re both so fucked up, we belong together._ Laughing as he said it.

Then melting into each other, puzzle pieces slotting together. Bones’s lips clinging to Jim’s, those big, warm hands sliding under his shirt. Shattering tradition with six reckless words: _C’mon, let me take you home_. Fumbling with clothes, getting tangled in sweaters and belt buckles. Bones kissing him like he was going for Olympic gold or something, his mouth like a furnace, lighting fires inside him. Those hands on his cock, stroking him, pumping him until he came so hard the whole world went white.

 _Fuck,_ those hands.

Jim raises himself on one elbow and looks down at Bones. He’s lying on his side with one arm crossed loosely, almost protectively, over his chest. The other dangles over the edge of the mattress, the hand turned upward, the long fingers curled slightly in an unconscious _and there you have it_ gesture.

Jim smiles. He wonders if anyone’s ever told Bones how fucking adorable he is when he sleeps. He looks so _young_ with his jaw slack, his chapped lips half-parted, his hair sticking up in all directions. He’s got at least half a dozen cowlicks going and it’s all Jim can do not to pet them.

There are still faint lines etched across his forehead, but he wouldn’t be Bones if he weren’t a _little_ creased. And he’s still pretty young, Jim reminds himself, only twenty-eight or so. Watching him, Jim finds it easy to imagine the boy he must have been: smooth-faced, floppy-haired, gangly. The brilliant boy who tried to do everything - school, a career, family - much too quickly, and paid for it dearly. Seeing him like this is really something. Jim wishes he had a camera.

But what would he do with a holo of Bones? Upload it to his PADD and gaze at it during class? Print it out and stick it under his pillow? Come on. That isn’t him. It’s not _them._ Whatever it is they have--

 _God, Bones, we’re both so fucked up, we belong together_

\--it’s not like that.

He should be going, anyway. He likes to start his jog early in the morning, before sunrise even, and a quick glance over his shoulder at the window tells him he’d better get a move on. More than that, he doesn’t want to be here when Bones wakes up. Before they fell asleep he warned him that he might not be, and Bones said he was okay with that. _It’s fine, darlin’,_ is what he actually said, while his hands brought their faces together for a kiss. The easy sincerity surprised Jim, though it probably shouldn’t have. Afloat in the afterglow, people say all kinds of shit.

He needs to let Bones know that he meant it - and find out if Bones really meant it too. If he isn’t fine with waking up alone, Jim will know when he sees him later. Even if he insists he’s fine, Jim will know the truth when he looks at his face. If he isn’t … that’s going to be a problem, because there are only so many concessions Jim will make, even for a guy like Bones. They belong together, but he doesn’t do relationships. They’re definitely something, but they aren’t boyfriends. Or lovers. Just thinking the word makes Jim a little queasy and now he _has_ to get out of here, so he pushes back the covers, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and levers himself to his feet.

Not bothering to turn on a light, he fumbles through his drawers for clean underwear and his running clothes. He dresses quickly, tugging his sweatpants on and tying the drawstring at his waist, pulling a sweatshirt over his head, shoving his feet into socks and then sneakers. He does all this in less than two minutes, and is nearly out the door, gloves and earmuffs in hand, when Bones stirs again.

He kicks unconsciously at the rumpled blanket, causing it to slide further down his body, groans a little, and shrugs his shoulders. Jim watches from the doorway, his own body tense, his breath stuck in his throat. He’s completely fucked if Bones wakes up, rolls over, and sees him. Right now he’s being an asshole, and he knows it. Even if Bones really is fine with waking up alone, leaving him like this, in an unfamiliar bed in his own dried fluids, makes Jim an asshole.

But that’s okay. He can be an asshole if Bones isn’t watching. He’s been an asshole for most of his life; he knows the ropes. He just doesn’t think he needs to see confirmation of that fact in those hazel eyes.

So he waits, biting nervously at his lower lip. Bones’s feet move restlessly beneath the blanket. His shoulders hunch in a defensive posture that Jim can’t help but wonder at. He _wants_ to put his hand between those shoulder blades and stroke soothing circles into the freckled skin. That’s exactly what he’ll do, Jim tells himself, if Bones wakes up. He’ll shuck off his clothes and get back into bed with him, fuck the jog, fuck all his rules.

Jim gives him a minute. One minute. But as the seconds tick by, whatever ghost is haunting Bones’s dreams decides to leave him alone. His shoulders relax and his body seems to sink more deeply into the mattress.

Jim exhales slowly.

Okay. Asshole Jim it is. Before he can think of another reason to stay, he steps out of the room and lets the door slide shut behind him.

* * * *

He tries not to think about Bones as he jogs through the thick gray fog that enshrouds the campus. He succeeds for the first mile or so, which is no small feat considering he still has the guy’s come on his skin. Then … he doesn’t know. He doesn’t see or hear anything that reminds him of Bones. He doesn’t see or hear _anything_ , the fog is so damn thick and it’s still a good twenty minutes before sunrise; everyone with an iota of sense is still in bed, it being winter break and all.

He doesn’t know. One moment he’s half-lost in the rhythm of his own heartbeat and footfalls, and the next he’s wondering if Bones is awake yet, and if he’s pissed off.

He reminds himself that Bones - _McCoy_ , he tells himself, the man has an actual _name_ \- is pissed off approximately 95% of the time. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. Jim did what he said he would do. If Bones is pissed off, it’s his own damn fault.

It’s Jim’s birthday. He reserves the right to be alone and sullen on his birthday. It’s how he’s dealt with it since he was six, which was when his brother told him their mom was only pretending to be happy. He knows - he’s known for a while - that Sam was only exercising _his_ prerogative as older brother to be a mean jerk, and that Winona loves him. The point is that nothing was ever the same after that, and this is how Jim copes. It’s worked for seventeen years.

God, he hopes Bones doesn’t try to cheer him up tonight. He meant it when he said he doesn’t want any cake or singing. Bones seemed amenable, but…

If McCoy wants this thing - whatever it is - to work, he needs learn to take Jim at his word. Not that he hasn’t in the past, but he needs to understand, _really_ understand, that Jim isn’t broken and he doesn’t need fixing.

McCoy likes to take care of people. More than that: he _needs_ to take care of them. And Jim does not need to be taken care of. Last night was … weird. That total collapse, that opening up - that was an aberration. It’s never happened before and, as nice as it was to be held and stroked and reassured, it is not going to happen again. They are not going to hug and talk about their feelings tonight. If McCoy even thinks that they might…

Then he remembers his reaction to Bones’s unconscious twitching and how close he came to jumping back into bed and putting his arms around him.

Well, fuck.

And now, of course, he remembers the way McCoy tensed up when Jim tried to finger him last night. _No,_ he groaned, _no, Jim--_ With just a hint of panic in his tone, almost like he thought Jim _wouldn’t_ stop.

It nearly killed his erection.

What the hell was that about?

Okay, Jim thinks, maybe McCoy just doesn’t like anal play. Not every man does. That’s a shame, because Jim loves it, giving and receiving. Sure, that’s just one item on a very large menu, and Jim is free to dine elsewhere - another thing McCoy had better believe he’s serious about - but now that he’s seen that ass and, fuck, _tasted_ that cock, he wants both.

Or maybe McCoy never even had anything up his ass before - apart from the steel rod that seems to be jammed up there semi-permanently. That doesn’t strike Jim as likely, considering the guy is twenty-eight, but who the hell knows? McCoy seems kind of repressed, and he got married pretty young. Jim suspects - based on no evidence whatsoever - that McCoy’s conjugal relations were fairly vanilla.

What if he’s never even been with another man before?

Jim can’t quite make himself believe that; that was no amateur hand job last night. Still, it beats the other possibility, which is that somebody hurt Bones at some point.

The thought stops Jim in his tracks. Literally. He freezes.

If somebody hurt Bones, whoever it was, he will track the fucker down and _destroy_ him. He stands there for a few moments, breathing hard, not even realizing that his hands are clenched until he looks down at them.

The sight shakes him up. _This is stupid,_ he thinks, uncurling his fingers abruptly and glancing up. Through the heavy fog, he can just make out Golden Gate Bridge, ghostly in the swirling grayness. Off to his left, he can hear the muffled gasps and sighs of the waves. He feels incredibly isolated, like he’s slipped into a parallel universe where he’s the sole inhabitant. All his thoughts ring so clearly in his mind, he might as well be shouting them.

What the _hell_ is he doing? This is pure speculation, based on a moment that lasted at _most_ ten seconds. He’s obsessing, and this isn’t like him at all. Okay, yes, he can be very focused when he wants to be. He’s on an accelerated track; he has to be focused. But on academic stuff, or sports. Not … he almost gags on the word … relationships.

He is _not_ in a relationship with Leonard McCoy. He’s just--

 _…the one I’ll keep coming back to. The one I come home to._

Fucking hell. He really said that last night, didn’t he?

“Stop thinking about it.” His tone is cool and commanding; it impresses him. “Just stop.”

Anyway, if any one person deserves his thoughts today, it’s his father, not McCoy. He’d never even have been born if his father hadn’t sacrificed his life for Winona and the rest of the _Kelvin_ ’s crew. Jim knows he’ll never be the man his father was. He’ll never replace him, even if he wanted to. But he still owes him, and one day out of the year is not too much to ask.

Fuck McCoy for interfering. It’s not his fault, but fuck him anyway. Fuck him and his broad shoulders, his green-flecked eyes, his soft lips. Fuck him, fuck him.

* * * *

Jim runs for another three miles, then doubles back toward his dorm. The sun is up and the fog has all but dissipated by the time he punches his code into the keypad beside the front door, his hips and knees aching, sweat rolling down his back. To his relief, his room is empty, not that he thought McCoy would stick around. The bed’s been stripped, and his clothes from last night, the good jeans and the indigo silk shirt, have been put away neatly. That amuses him and annoys him simultaneously; McCoy just can’t leave things alone.

Jim kicks off his sneakers and strips out of his jogging clothes, leaving them in a messy pile on the floor. He grabs a towel and some soap, then heads down the empty corridor to the communal showers, where he spends a good twenty minutes or so just standing under the steady, hot stream, watching in a kind of glazed fascination as soapy water swirls around his toes before disappearing down the drain.

Afterward, he towel dries his hair and dresses in his cadet reds. He doesn’t have to wear the uniform today, but he feels like it. Every time he catches sight of himself in the mirror above his dresser, he’s reminded of the fact that he’s finally doing something with his life, maybe something good. Or at any rate worthwhile.

He spends the rest of the morning lounging in his chair with his feet propped up on the desk, his ankles crossed, reading a book his Astrophysics instructor recommended. It’s pretty absorbing stuff and he manages to concentrate on the words and diagrams, only becoming aware of the passage of time when his stomach begins to growl. Swinging his legs down, he saves his place in the book and puts his PADD into sleep mode.

As he’s shrugging into his jacket, he considers messaging McCoy and seeing if he wants to meet for lunch. He did say they’d get together later. But a glance at the clock mounted onto the wall beside the doorframe tells him that it’s only 12:25; not late enough, he decides. He doesn’t want McCoy to start thinking they’re joined at the hip, or that Jim can’t spend more than five hours without him. Anyway, he isn’t sure, but he thinks McCoy might have a shift at the infirmary this afternoon. It’s a safe assumption. He probably wouldn’t want Jim interrupting him while he’s trying to treat injuries and illnesses, even if Jim brought coffee and sandwiches from the Student Union.

Jim fidgets with the zipper pull on his jacket.

He _should_ send McCoy some kind of message, let him know he’s still alive at least. Right? Maybe give him some kind of timeframe. That would be polite, after all. Wouldn’t it?

Jim gives up on his zipper and pulls his communicator out of his pocket. He frowns at it for a moment, then flips it open and types out a quick message:

 **Take out at your place tonight?**

He hits send, then shoves the communicator back into his pocket and exits the room. On his way out the front door, he hears a muffled chirp, alerting him to the fact that he has a new message in his inbox. His stomach lurches inexplicably, but he whips the communicator out again and reads McCoy’s reply:

 **I’ll take care of dinner. How’s Thai food sound?**

 **Thai sounds good,** Jim types back. **See you at about 19:30?**

A moment later, he gets McCoy’s response. It’s succinct: **See you then, darlin’.**

Jim feels the flush rise up his neck and spread across his cheeks.

 _Darlin’._

He can hear McCoy’s Southern drawl as he scans the word over and over, can almost feel the warm breath against his ear, the strong fingers in his hair. Just holding him while he whispered again and again, _I’m sorry. Jim, I’m so, so sorry._

He’s heard those words before. Plenty of times, in fact. From his mom, every time she left on an assignment: _I’m sorry, baby. You know I love you, but I need to do this. You understand, right?_ From Sam, before he ran away to Idaho: _Sorry, Jim. I just can’t take it here anymore. You’ll be okay, though._ Even from Uncle Frank, after he sobered up: _Sorry, kid. You’re not worthless. You’re just … I don’t know what you are._

Sorry is probably the first thing his father would say to him, if it were possible for them to meet in this universe. Sorry, Jim.

Why it was different when Bones said it, Jim doesn’t know.

Bones wasn’t walking away from him while he said it.

Bones came to find him. He showed up at the exact right moment.

And then he just stood there, his arms at his sides, prepared to take it, while Jim got ready to smash his face in.

“Fuck, Bones,” Jim whispers, closing his eyes against the cold air, scuffing the sole of his shoe against the pavement. _Fuck, fuck, what are you doing to me?_

He could not go, he supposes. He could wait an hour or two, then send McCoy a text message saying something came up and he just can’t make it tonight. McCoy would understand.

But why the hell would he do something like that? Doesn’t he like hanging out with McCoy? Doesn’t he like hearing what the guy has to say? They’re not on the same squadron, but they’re a team. More than that, they’re friends and have been ever since McCoy sat down next to him on the shuttle that morning in Riverside, and offered him a drink from his hipflask. And isn’t there a part of him that takes comfort in knowing that McCoy thinks about him, worries about him?

Of course there is.

And of course he doesn’t want to hurt McCoy. He thought he did last night, and the sheer wrongness of it knocked him right off his feet. Just a few hours ago, he was ready to hunt down and tear apart an imagined abuser.

He’d do it, he knows. In a heartbeat.

Nobody is allowed to hurt Leonard McCoy, and that includes Jim Kirk.

He fiddles restlessly with the communicator.

“Just don’t let me down, Bones,” he mutters. “Don’t you dare let me down.”

He inhales deeply, but it doesn’t help. So far today, Bones hasn’t done anything to disappoint Jim. So why does he feel like he’s been punctured, like he’s seeping oxygen?

* * * *

He’s there at 19:30 on the dot, in the jeans from last night and the dark green turtleneck sweater his mother sent him for Chanukah. Bones buzzes him in and he takes the lift to the sixth floor, feeling his stomach drop along the way. His feet are cold by the time he steps out into the corridor, and his palms are clammy, but he reminds himself that he’s James Fucking Kirk, and musters up a grin, which broadens all on its own when he catches sight of Bones leaning in the doorway to his quarters, apparently waiting for him.

“Jim,” Bones says, and there’s pleasure underlying the gruffness. It sends invisible darts into Jim’s throat. “What’re you--”

Jim doesn’t let him finish the sentence. He walks right up to him, wraps a hand around the back of his neck, and pushes their mouths together. Bones makes a startled grunt and instinctively puts his hands against Jim’s chest, but he doesn’t push him away, so Jim deepens the kiss, parting his lips, trying to coax Bones’s mouth open.

If Bones is upset about this morning, Jim can’t tell by the way he kisses; there’s nothing urgent or standoffish in the brush of his lips, the slide of his tongue. He actually chuckles a little, deep in his throat, and his hands stroke their way up Jim’s chest and down his sides.

 _Good,_ Jim thinks, starting to relax, _this is going to work._ He walks Bones backward into his room and reaches behind him to palm the door shut. He barely has time to admire his own smoothness before Bones has him pressed against that door and is deepening the kiss, his hands gripping folds of Jim’s sweater. Jim goes with it, bending his knees slightly and letting Bones pin him with his weight, letting him set the pace.

The mingled scents of Bones’s soap, toothpaste, and aftershave fill Jim’s nostrils. There’s something spicy beneath it all, which has to be Bones himself. Jim inhales deeply, loving it, amused by the fleeting vision he has of Bones showering and shaving in anticipation of his arrival. Like it’s a date, or something. God, Bones.

He’s so caught up in the kiss and the growing ache between his legs that it takes him a few moments to notice the other aroma hanging thickly in the air. The second he does, though, his hands come up instinctively to shove Bones away. Their mouths separate with a wet pop and Bones looks at him in startled confusion.

“I said no cake.” Jim’s tone is raw, accusatory. He feels like he’s been punched.

“What the hell?”

“I said no cake. I don’t want to celebrate. I told you that last night. I said--” He gropes blindly for the panel beside the door. He has to get out of here.

“Jim.” Bones seems to have recovered from his initial shock. Wiping the saliva from his bottom lip with the back of his hand, he takes a step closer. Jim recoils. “Kid…” Bones drops his hand and sighs. “Gimme a sec to explain. You don’t understand.”

“ _You_ don’t understand,” Jim shoots back. “I can’t change just like that. You can’t turn me into who you want me to be. I don’t--”

“It isn’t a cake,” Bones interrupts. “Dumbass.” He takes another step, and now he’s too close, now he’s in Jim’s personal space, taking up all the oxygen, fucking _leeching_ it. Jim can’t breathe.

“Idiot.” Bones grips his shoulders. “Goddamn drama queen. It isn’t a cake, all right? You said you didn’t want to celebrate your birthday the traditional way and I respect that. It’s just a pie, darlin’, nothing to be afraid of.”

Now there’s gentle mockery in his tone, and Jim flushes, half in anger, half embarrassment. He closes his eyes when Bones brings their foreheads together, but he doesn’t try to pull away again.

“Just a harmless blackberry-peach pie,” Bones continues, his warm breath fanning Jim’s lips and chin. “I bought it for myself, if that makes you feel better. Though you’re welcome to have a slice, if you can stop acting like a goddamn infant.”

“No candles?” Jim barely recognizes his own voice; it’s almost a squeak.

“No candles,” Bones promises and kisses him again, just once, on the lips. “Idiot.” Then, sounding almost contrite-- “I really freaked you out, huh?”

Jim licks his lips. “I told you,” he says without opening his eyes. He can feel Bones’s intense gaze. “I’m always sort of weird on my birthday. It’s just something about me that you have to accept.”

“Okay.” Bones slides a hand into Jim’s hair, rubbing the pad of his thumb over his cheekbone. “Hey, kid?”

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

Jim’s eyes flutter open. Bones is looming over him, still crowding him, but it doesn’t feel claustrophobic anymore. He breathes deeply and summons up a wan smile.

Bones shakes his head. “Idiot.”

“You gonna stop calling me names?”

“The great Jim Kirk, undone by pie.”

“Hey.”

Bones lets his other hand drop to Jim’s waist. “Are you hungry? I got spring rolls, pad thai, and red curry with some kind of sticky rice.”

“I’m not hungry,” Jim admits. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t feel like telling Bones how his stomach’s been tied up in knots all day. Bones already thinks he’s ridiculous. “Sorry.”

“You better be sorry. That messes up my whole plan for the evening.”

Jim doesn’t think Bones is serious. Still, he frowns warily as he says, “What was the plan?”

“First I was gonna feed you, then I was gonna blow you.”

“Oh.”

Bones smirks. “‘Oh,’ he says. Bless your little heart.” Once again, his tone is gently mocking.

“You could blow me first,” Jim suggests, raising his eyebrows. That earns him a snort of laughter and a long, deep kiss that sends the blood rushing back to his groin.

“C’mere,” Bones says, pulling away after about a minute. “Let’s do this somewhere comfortable. I don’t feel like kneeling on the doormat.” He threads his fingers with Jim’s and tugs him away from the door.

Jim goes where he’s led, feeling oddly weightless, like a colossal burden has been lifted from his shoulders. Bones lets go of his hand when they reach the bed and sits down on the edge, looking up at Jim expectantly.

“Well,” he says. “Strip.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

Jim tries to put on a good show, pulling the sweater slowly over his head, tossing it aside, then running his hands down his chest and belly, letting his fingertips dip below the waistband of his jeans. It’s like the opposite of last night, when they couldn’t wait to get each other’s clothes off. Not that Jim is feeling especially patient; he just wants to do this right, having nearly fucked it up once already.

Bones leans back on his elbows and watches him, the green flecks in his eyes gleaming softly beneath the shadows of his lashes.

Jim unzips his pants and pushes them down over his thighs, but then he nearly trips over his own feet when he tries to toe his boots off. It’s so uncharacteristic that he has to laugh ruefully at himself, and under different circumstances that might kill the mood, but then Bones is laughing too, and pushing himself back up. “C’mere,” he says, reaching for Jim. “God, you gorgeous idiot. C’mere.”

Jim puts his hands on Bones’s shoulders and, feeling rather childish, allows himself to be helped out of his jeans.

“Hey, Bones?” he says because this is sexy but also a little awkward, and he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut, “I’m not the first guy you’ve ever been with, am I?”

Bones looks up, his eyebrows pinched together over the bridge over his nose. “That supposed to be some sort of comment on my technique?”

“No, no, no! I just wondered. Am I?”

The crease between Bones’s eyebrows deepens. He seems to mull it over for a moment or two while his hands continue to stroke up and down Jim’s bare thighs. Jim knows he shouldn’t have asked, or maybe should have waited until later, but he can’t take it back now, and he is kind of curious.

“You’re my fourth,” Bones says at length, still frowning.

“Just your fourth?”

“Just my fourth.”

“I - oh.” He isn’t sure how to take this new information. On the one hand, he’s sort of glad he isn’t Bones’s first, even though he was pretty sure all along that he wasn’t. On the other hand, compared with the notches on his own proverbial bedpost, Bones is, well…

Bones pinches his thigh, recapturing his attention. “Hey. I’m happy to talk, if that’s what you wanna do. We can talk, we can watch movies, I can let you fuck my mouth. It’s your birthday, darlin’. We’re doing what you want.” He sounds half-serious, but while he speaks he slides his hands up Jim’s thighs and start to tug on his underwear, and yeah, Jim may be a little bit stupid sometimes, especially when it comes to the words he allows to leave his mouth, but he isn’t _that_ stupid.

Jim curves his fingers around the back of Bones’s neck, which Bones correctly interprets as the go-ahead to yank his underwear down, freeing his fully erect cock. Jim gasps when the cool air hits him and bucks his hips instinctively, but Bones catches him by the hip, holding him steady.

He takes Jim in his free hand and holds him, the tips of his fingers pushing gently against his balls. Jim looks at down at himself, at his cock in that broad hand, and he opens his mouth to say something, maybe to ask Bones if he likes what he sees there, but what comes out is a strangled guttural sound that’s probably actually a swearword in Klingon.

Chuckling, Bones gives Jim a good, firm stroke, and then leans forward, letting his lips touch the tip of his cock. Jim sucks in a breath and fights the urge to thrust. He keeps his feet flat on the carpeted floor, and his hands curled at his sides. He doesn’t realize he’s closed his eyes again until Bones says, “Look at me.”

He lifts his lashes and - _holy shit_ \- the head of his cock is resting right there on Bones’s plush lower lip, and there’s a small pool of pre-come on his tongue, andand--

Wet heat engulfs him and he lets out a throaty moan. Bones’s hands squeeze his buttocks, pulling them apart, and Jim thinks, _Oh God, oh God, yes, please--_ But Bones is focused on his cock. He sucks greedily, hollowing out his cheeks, like he’d just inhale Jim if he could. The crease between his eyebrows is back; he looks so serious it’s almost comical. Jim lifts a finger to touch that little crease, maybe smooth it out, but he changes his plan at the last second, burying his fingers in Bones’s hair instead.

He tries not to grip too hard. _He_ kind of enjoys being manhandled during fellatio, but maybe Bones doesn’t. Curious, he combs his fingers through the thick brown hair, and yeah, Bones likes that because he hums around Jim’s cock, causing his stomach to tighten and his vision to blur around the edges.

“Fuck,” he moans. Bones is kneading him now, reshaping him while he draws him in deeper. And Jim goes with it. Whatever Bones wants to do with him, turn him into, he doesn’t fucking care anymore. He cards his hands through Bones’s hair, biting his lip to stop an embarrassing whimper from escaping. That works for a few seconds.

Then Bones lets go of Jim’s ass and, leaning back slightly, wraps one hand around his cock and cups his balls with the other. He keeps his lips closed tightly around the head, his tongue teasing the slit and the sensitive crown, and Jim comes with a yelp, his hips juddering uncontrollably. Bones continues to squeeze and suck, wringing every last drop out of Jim, not letting him slide out until he’s limp.

“Fuck, Bones,” Jim mutters. He half-climbs, half-stumbles on top of Bones, straddling his hips, aiming kisses at his mouth, but mostly getting his chin and cheeks. There’s a dribble of come at the corner of Bones’s mouth and Jim laps it up.

“Puppy,” Bones growls, and Jim is not so far gone that he isn’t aware of the fact that he’d be pissed off if anyone else called him that. Hell, he’d be pissed off at Bones if the guy hadn’t just blown him. He waits for Bones to shove him off his lap. Instead, he rests a hand on Jim’s hip and says, “So, what’s next?”

“Next?”

“Next, birthday boy. What do you like?”

Now is not the time to bring it up, Jim thinks. There’s a lot that he likes, a lot that they could do right here, and most of it probably wouldn’t freak McCoy out. But Jim wants to know. He has the feeling he’s already in too deep, but - fuck it.

“I like anal,” he says, looking McCoy in the eye. “You don’t, though.”

Bones looks up at him quizzically for a moment. Then understanding spreads like a shadow across his face. “Last night,” he says.

“Yeah. You didn’t want it.”

“I see. And it didn’t occur to you that maybe I just didn’t want it _last night_?”

“Well--”

“No,” Bones cuts him off, rolling his eyes, “of course it didn’t. Someone doesn’t want Jim Kirk’s fingers up his ass, he’s got a problem. Drama queen. Do I even wanna know what other conclusions you jumped to?”

“Not really,” Jim says truthfully. “So, you like it? You’re okay with it?”

“It’s not my favorite thing on the menu,” Bones says, shrugging. “But it’s on the menu. I just…” He lowers his gaze and spends a moment apparently contemplating Jim’s left nipple. “I don’t like being surprised, I guess. You surprised me last night. That’s all. It’s been a while.”

He’s tense. Jim can feel it all through his body, and he’s reminded suddenly of how quiet and focused Bones became right before he told him about his father. Jim curls around him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, and kisses his temple.

“The last time,” Bones says from the safe circle of Jim’s arms, “it wasn’t good. Don’t want you getting any harebrained ideas - it wasn’t traumatic. But it wasn’t good. I was twenty and I didn’t know a goddamn thing about what I wanted. Certainly didn’t know how to articulate it. And of course I was too damn proud - or too damn stubborn - to say it wasn’t working. It was fucked up. But that’s the story. And we can do whatever you want tonight.” He squeezes Jim’s ass again, digging his fingers into the dimpled flesh.

Jim squirms in his lap, uncertain. He’s still processing what he’s been told, but his body, especially the lower half, is very cognizant of the fact that he’s naked except for his socks and straddling Bones’s hips. He cards his hands through Bones’s hair and kisses him again.

“Tell me what you want.” Bones’s breath is hot against his skin. He opens his legs, spreading Jim’s wider as well. “D’you wanna fuck me? D’you want me to fuck you?”

“Yeeeeesss…”

“Yes to what, Jim?” Bones’s hot, broad palms are all over him now, his blunt fingertips skimming the crack of his ass.

“Want you,” Jim croaks. “Do me. Please.” At some point, he thinks, he _is_ going to spread Bones out and do him the way he deserves to be done, make sure everything is good for him. That’s a promise. Tonight, though, he doesn’t think he can deal with the responsibility. It’s been too weird a day. He’s too fucked up. It’s his birthday.

“I mean,” he continues, quirking his lips, “if you’re not feeling too rusty. It’s been eight years…”

“I know where everything goes, dipshit. Get up. C’mon.” Bones gives him a shove and he half-slides, half-falls off his lap. “And take off your socks. God’s sake, you look ridiculous.”

“It didn’t bother you before,” Jim says, standing on one foot to peel off his socks. Once he’s completely naked, he flops back onto the bed and twists onto his back. “How do you want me? Like this?” He wiggles his ass against the blanket.

“Good God.” Bones rubs a hand over his face. “On your side.”

“Like this?” Jim rolls over again, curling one arm beneath him.

“Perfect.”

Jim’s facing the wall now, so he can’t see what Bones is doing, but it sounds like he’s undressing. There’s a soft _whump_ as his pants or his shirt hit the floor, and Jim shivers in anticipation. He bends one knee, parting his thighs. Bones’s sharp inhalation is audible.

“There’s lube in my jeans, by the way,” says Jim.

“Of course there is.”

“Just in case you don’t have any.”

“You think I’d’ve made the offer if I didn’t?” Bones opens a drawer and starts rummaging through it, sliding it shut once he finds what he’s looking for.

“I wouldn’t hurt you, you know.” The words tumble out of Jim’s mouth. “Ever.” His face burns. Why the hell did he say that? It’s so mushy sentimental. He licks his lips. “’Less you asked me to.” Okay, that sounds more like him.

“Jim.” The mattress dips as Bones climbs in beside him. He feels warmth along his back, the hard press of an erection against his ass, and then a hand on his shoulder. Bones kisses his ear. “I know. Tell me if I’m going too fast or too slow, all right?” He pushes the heel of his palm into Jim’s trapezius muscle, making him groan. “This is for you.”

He’s so gentle, it’s almost hard to believe that this is the same man who yells at him when he skips a meal or clouts his shoulder when he shows up to class without his jacket. How bad, Jim wonders, must Bones’s last experience with a man have been, if he feels the need to be this careful with him? Or maybe this is just the way Bones is in bed. It’s a surprise. It certainly isn’t what Jim is used to, but … hell, he could get used to it. He really could.

Bones massages his way down Jim’s back, rubbing his thumb over each knob of bone, working his muscles loose. His lips follow, pressing kisses into sensitized flesh. “Relax,” Bones whispers against the small of his back. “You’re tense.” He rubs slow, deep circles into the curve of Jim’s spine. “Relax.”

Jim blinks slowly at the wall. He wants to touch himself, but when he starts to move his arm, Bones says, “No. Wait. I gotcha.” He twists the upper half of his body away, and the sudden loss of warmth is brutal; Jim clutches at the blanket and bites his lip. Bones is on him again a moment later, his fingers slick with lube. He nudges one hand between Jim’s thighs, and Jim thinks for an instant that he’s going to go for his balls, but no, he presses two fingers against his perineum and Jim can’t help it, he lets out a long guttural moan as heat throbs inside him.

“Mmm, you like that.” Bones’s lips graze the tender skin over his ribs. He pushes harder. “Look at yourself. Don’t touch yourself, just look.”

Jim knows he’s leaking pre-come, but he does what he’s told - really, it’s crazy how he just _obeys_ \- and then he’s transfixed by the sight of his own erection, by the thin white strands linking the slit to Bones’s blanket.

“Good?”

“S’good,” Jim replies muzzily.

“Ready for my fingers?”

Jim snorts a laugh. “You don’t have to _ask_.”

“Maybe I do.”

Maybe he does. “ _Yes,_ I’m ready. Shit, I’m ready. Want you to fuck me already. Wanted it since we first fucking met, do you realize that? From the minute you sat down, I wanted your dick. Could’ve gone down on you right there in the shuttle. Wanna--”

He cuts off his babbling when Bones breaches him with a finger. He clenches around it instinctively and is delighted when Bones swears under his breath.

“I’m ready,” Jim pants. “Fucking do it.”

Still, Bones takes his time, working him open slowly, only adding a second finger when he’s able to stroke the first one in and out of Jim’s body with minimal resistance. Each brush across his prostate sends Jim closer to the edge, but he clings tenaciously, clenching his teeth, clawing at the blankets. His composure doesn’t last. By three fingers he’s whimpering. By four, he’s rutting against the blanket, mewling, “Please, I get it, okay? I get it, please--”

Bones withdraws his fingers. Jim feels more lube being rubbed into him. Then Bones is spooning up against him, nudging a knee between his thighs. The blunt head of his cock pushes against Jim’s hole. Bones shifts, like he’s trying to find a better angle. Jim reaches around behind him, gives Bones’s right buttock a squeeze. _Go ahead,_ he begs silently. _Please._

With a grunt, Bones thrusts in and Jim hisses because it hurts despite all the careful prep, but it’s good too, so good, and he gives Bones’s ass another encouraging squeeze. Bones sucks in a thick, shaky breath. He’s trembling all over, Jim realizes. While he’s wondering if he should say something, Bones pulls out almost completely, leaving just the head of his cock inside Jim. Then, with a half-sob, he thrusts back in, penetrating deeply, and everything blurs.

For Jim, there’s friction and heat, the feeling of fullness and the utter certainty that he could take so much more. Bones’s thrusts are fast and sharp, his grip on Jim’s hip bruisingly tight. The noises he makes against Jim’s neck could be words or inane babble; it’s impossible to tell. Whatever it is, it’s wonderful. Jim can feel Bones coming undone inside him, and he pushes back, clenching tightly around him.

Jim doesn’t warn Bones when he’s about to come. He starts to, gets out a “B-b--” and it’s entirely possible that Bones hears and understands, because he reaches around and takes Jim’s cock in his hand, and then Jim is shuddering, shivering, the rush of white behind his eyes like a spill of stars.

Bones is right behind him, literally and figuratively. There’s no rhythm to his thrusts now, or to his heartbeat. He lets go of Jim’s cock and hooks his arm under his thigh, pushing it up higher, almost to his chest. It isn’t a comfortable position, but Jim doesn’t care. When Bones wraps his other arm around his chest, Jim grabs his hand and laces their fingers together, gripping tightly as Bones pounds out his orgasm.

They lie together for a little while afterward, Bones’s chest to Jim’s back, only a film of sweat between them. At length, Bones lets go of Jim’s thigh and helps him straighten his leg, but he doesn’t withdraw his softened cock.

A few more moments pass, then Bones gives Jim’s fingers a squeeze. “Should get up.” His breath is warm against Jim’s ear. “Did say I’d feed you.”

Jim nods.

“Gotta shower. If I can get up.”

He seems to be waiting for something, some signal from Jim. But though he’s starting to be aware of his empty stomach, Jim has no desire to move right now. He likes the feel of Bones inside him. Could almost fall asleep like this.

“I should shower first, I guess,” Bones says, “then heat up the food while you take yours. Stall’s only big enough for one, or I’d say join me.”

“Can I watch?”

Bones’s laughter is soft; it tickles the short hairs at the base of his skull. “Yeah, you can watch, darlin’. Can do whatever you like.”

He pulls away then, gently tugging himself free, and Jim has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He doesn’t know why he feels bereft all of sudden; Bones is going no great distance. Jim can hear him climbing unsteadily to his feet, swearing mildly as he bumps his shin against the corner of the bed on his way to the bathroom. When he hears the sound of running water, he uncurls his body and sits up, ignoring his sore ass and aching tendons.

 _Run,_ a small voice tells him. _Now, while he isn’t looking. Run._

Like running _now_ will do him any good. It’s too fucking late. He’s so in love.

And this is bad. It’s catastrophic. He can’t be in love right now. He isn’t ready; he’ll fuck it up, end up hurting Bones.

And nobody is allowed to hurt Bones.

 _Run._

He gets up.

He finds the messy pile of his clothes and pokes at them with his toes.

In the shower, Bones snorts, apparently to himself, “Undone by pie, good God.”

 _You can do whatever you like._

Meaning, Jim supposes, that he can leave if he wants. Bones gave him permission. Bones gets him, at least that much.

Of course he does. They’re a team.

Jim walks past the pile of clothes to stand in the bathroom doorway. Bones, he sees, left the stall door ajar. Leaning against the doorjamb, Jim watches him through the swirls of steam. He feels the tug of desire at the sight of those long, pale sinews glistening under a sheen of soapy water, followed by a strong, protective urge. Bones’s eyes are closed; droplets of water cling to the tips of his lashes, making them appear strangely heavy. His head is bowed, the knob at the base of his neck exposed and vulnerable.

"Hey, kid?" Bones says without looking up. "Call me crazy, but I think I wanna try the flight sim again. Not tonight, but at some point..."

Jim fidgets. He feels a spike of adrenalin, but he stays where he is.

He won’t leave. Not tonight. He’s an idiot, and he’s going to end up paying for it somehow, but he just can’t do it. He’s responsible for Leonard McCoy in a way that he’s never really understood before. And besides that…

 _I fucking love you._

He is so fucked.

2/20/2011


End file.
